Chapter 9 #4
He supposed railway workers might also want to see cross-country airplane flights go badly.
And then there was the conservative crowd who thought women belonged at home caring for their husbands and raising children.
Furthermore, he’d heard talk at the local BOI field office that considerable betting was happening over who would win this highly publicized air race.
Could a big bettor or a bookie, maybe even a mobster with his fingers in the gambling pot, be the source of the sabotage?
Regardless of who’d messed with Amelia’s plane, he highly doubted that person was finished trying to affect the outcome of the race or get it canceled altogether. He rocked back on his heels, contemplating the situation.
He wasn’t one to put comfort above duty. Good thing he kept a valise in the car’s trunk, packed with a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a razor. Apparently, he was about to make a cross-country road trip to Cleveland, Ohio, by way of a bunch of airfields.
He might be no great fan of the mouthy, brazen women he’d met Friday night, and he might not approve of their race, but he did have a responsibility to protect the racers from criminal harm.
“Mr. Barnes, have you considered the possible repercussions of this action?” Attorney Willard Templeton had to force himself to ask the question.
In truth, he was eager, giddy even, over the fees—lots and lots of hours of fees—he would be billing to the massive Barnes estate if Florence’s husband went ahead with having her committed to an insane asylum.
“I assure you, I have spent numerous hours in prayer over this dilemma,” Rankin answered solemnly. “My wife has gone too far this time with her determination to expose my only son to the perils of aviation. I can no longer remain silent.”
Willard controlled an urge to smile. “An understandable position. And might I say, many medical professionals agree that excessive risk-taking is a form of hysteria.”
“I hope . . . pray . . . it’s treatable,” Rankin responded sanctimoniously. “What I truly desire is a happy family. My wife needs to understand that woman was made by our Lord to be a helpmate for man. My son is being confused by the example his mother is setting.”
Willard cleared his throat to make sure his excitement didn’t bleed into his voice.
“I will file this petition for incompetency with the court right away. I know just the judge to take it to. Like you, Judge Otis is known for his traditional views. He believes a woman’s God-given purpose is to obey her husband. ”
“What happens after that?” Rankin asked.
“As soon as your petition is approved, I will reach out to the medical staff at St. Bernardine Mental Institution. They’re accustomed to taking custody of incoming patients discreetly.
A doctor there is doing excellent work with electric shock therapy to modify the sort of aberrant behavior your wife is exhibiting.
If you will sign here, as the husband and guardian of Florence Barnes . . .”
Willard pushed the typed document on his desk to Rankin.
Alarm erupted in Rankin’s chest as he hesitated. Do it. Sign the papers. Protect William.
His only child was more precious than anything. He couldn’t bear the idea of his son being crushed in the wreckage of an airplane crash.
Not his William . . .
Rankin took an audible breath, scrawled his name across the bottom of the document, and pushed it away as if afraid he might change his mind.
Willard snatched the petition, double-checking it to ensure the signature was clear and readable. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Barnes.” Rankin stood, relief visible on his face.
Glee bubbled up in his belly. Relief was something Willard knew how to manage.
Stoking the husband’s fears could turn into a very lucrative cash flow.
He cautioned himself to be careful with how he did it, though.
He was very good at creating complex financial accounts and confusing legal documents to hide all manner of shady money dealings.
Rankin would get all his errant wife’s wealth, and he would take a hefty cut of Rankin’s haul for himself.
They would both be very happy men before this was all said and done.
Willard’s secretary rose from her seat in the corner where she’d been taking notes in rapid shorthand throughout the meeting with Rankin.
“Dr. Kramer is just the man for this,” Willard told her. “Let him know I’m going to have a very special patient for him soon.”
“How are you going to get Mrs. Barnes to submit to Kramer’s electric shock therapy?”
Willard smiled smugly. “By the time this wicked air derby Mrs. Barnes insists on participating in is over, she’ll already be in custody. I won’t have any trouble getting Judge Otis to grant complete control of her treatment to her husband.”
“You think the race organizers are going to stand silent if one of their most famous pilots goes missing mid-race?”
Willard scoffed at her. “They only want headlines. They don’t care what the headlines say as long as their race gets huge publicity.
And this will be one of the biggest headlines of the whole race.
Mark my words, plenty of folks are going to be grateful to us for making sure Pancho Barnes is hauled away to a sanatorium.
It’s high time women were sent a stern warning about forgetting their place. ”
His secretary turned and left the office without saying any more.
As was her proper place.